Okay… so perhaps deciding to attend last week’s African Street Festival combined with my deathly fear of being around groups of six Black people or more wasn’t such a great idea after all. For all sense and purpose, going into it I was somewhat optimistic that I could muddle through. However I later discovered that walking around an extremely crowded street fair with one hand gripped around my pepper spray and the other to my rape whistle, wasn’t quite as enjoyable as one might imagine. As a Black man I really do hate that I fear my people so. But to quote Mrs. Vanderbilt, the old racist white lady who lived directly across from my grandmother’s church who would yell at my cousins and I when we picked apples from her tree; unfortunately…”I don’t trust niggas as far as I can see them.”
Just for the record, I would like to give a personal Brett and the City shout out to all of you women still rocking those big hot ass wigs in over a hundred degree temperatures. Unless those things come with a built in cooling system, or little battery operated fan packs hidden inside I’ll just never understand how you do it. It was so hot out there that day that I saw one lady basically pass out from heat exhaustion. And then when the emergency unit came over to revive her, believe it or not she still refused to take off her wig. She literally told them to cut off her blouse instead. Okay… so now you’re sitting on a curb at a crowded street fair, with nothing but your bra on and a big ass I.V sticking out your arm, surrounded by a team of paramedics, not to mention your two sisters fanning you with flyers while your baby holds your purse; and yet you STILL refuse to take off your wig. Talk about committing to a look. Honestly, I’ve seen people let go of their religion and loved ones in far lesser times of peril.
What’s ironic is that for a supposed celebration of all things African, there wasn’t a single Afro in the entire place. There were so many weaves walking around that for a second I actually thought I was at The Lace Front Awards. There were literally weaves as far as the eye could see. I saw blonde ones, plaid ones, and pink ones. I even saw a set of little four year old twins sporting what looked to be two custom made fire engine red Rhianna ones. To which I overheard several other woman comment, “Ooh those are too cute! I should get one of them for Jatasia. I wonder if it comes in blue.”
I thought to myself, “Wow… Back to School Lace Fronts. Boy have parent’s priorities changed since I was a kid.” Hell, I was lucky if I got my own pair of Bugle Boys that I didn’t have to share with my two brothers. I still remember the day my mother looked at me sideways for merely asking, “Mama… just this once can I PLEASE get a new pair of sneakers that don’t come from Kroger?” Her exact response was, “Nigga please, who the hell you think you are… a Kennedy? You better throw them shoes over in this grocery basket. And then carry yo’ little ass over to aisle nine and grab me the big bottle of vinegar.” And we all knew what mama used the “Big Bottle of Vinegar” for back in the day. And let’s just say it had absolutely nothing to do with collard greens.
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As I sat down today at my favorite Starbucks attempting to bang out this week’s column, I couldn’t really focus on writing because I kept having the strangest sensation that I was somehow being watched. As I peeled my eyes up from the keyboard of my old trusty Dell, finally there was the culprit. A little baby sticking his head out from under his little pea green stroller, which no doubt probably cost more money than my last Saturn. While his mother just sat there neglectfully slurping her low fat latte, and yapping it up with one of the other yuppie moms about organic milk, Ellen, or whatever else it is rich stay at home moms obsess about. Her baby sat their continually ice grilling me the entire time from the comfort of his deluxe Bugaboo.
That’s when it hit me; what exactly is the polite way to say to someone “Hey lady… your baby is staring at me too much?” I guess I somehow missed that episode of Oprah. Now I’ll admit, the first few minutes it was actually kind of cute; but then it just got downright awkward. I naturally assumed he would eventually grow tired and look away, but to my surprise the gazes actually got even more intense with time. Talk about uncomfortable: every time I looked up there he was looking at me with those beady little Hannibal Lector eyes staring right thru me; almost as if the little fucker knew something I didn’t. Then to make matters even worse, he didn’t look away once nor did he ever blink. Meanwhile frustrated out of my freaking mind, I’m sitting there like “Really baby? I mean who does that?” Honestly, who can work under this type of scrutiny? It was like I was constantly being judged. The whole thing felt like one bad Barbara Walters interview.
Finally I tried to drop a hint to the woman by commenting, “Wow… your baby sure is observant. Does he stare this intently at everyone?” Even though what I really wanted to do was yell, “Damn lady enough is enough! Either turn that little big head mother fucker around the other way, or take that little freaky looking bastard outside! My feeling is that people should really be required to teach their toddlers a few manners before bringing them out in public. I don’t care if your child is only nine months old. No one wants to be forced to sit through the damn Spanish Inquisition every time they sit beside you in a restaurant or on the train. Now if I were to do that same thing my ass would catch a case. Because the bottom line is, no matter who’s doing it, it doesn’t feel good to be stared at. So in closing, if you can’t manage to teach your baby to stop ice grilling folks in public, then dammit get that little mother fucker some shades.
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